


Top and tail (1)

by nutsforwinter



Series: Close [5]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 22:28:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2364341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutsforwinter/pseuds/nutsforwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He gets cold feet and is just about to leave without knocking when the door opens up a crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Top and tail (1)

He shakes the lapels of his jacket nervously, its fringes jostling against his body. Wrench has no idea if the doorbell is in working order. He’s already rung it twice and he doesn’t know how long he should wait before knocking. He glances at the heavily packed duffel to his right for reassurance. His possessions are few, and it is a small comfort that he can carry all of them with him. One of two comforts, actually. He came here banking on the other one, and his confidence in it is dwindling quickly.

He gets cold feet and is just about to leave without knocking when the door opens up a crack. Through the gap he can see half of Numbers’ face illuminated by the cold hallway fluorescent, his right eye squinting incredulously at the fringe jacket. There is a beat before Wrench realizes he has come without giving any notice. Not that there is any easy way for him to do that. He waves sheepishly. There is another beat. Numbers holds up a finger before closing the door to release the chain. It opens again, fully this time, but Numbers stays where he is, barring the way in.

 _Not the best time,_ he signs grumpily.

In the light, Wrench can see Numbers in his full groggy form. He appears to have just woken up. His hair is disheveled, and his grey t-shirt and plaid boxers are wrinkled. He yawns and runs his hand vigorously through the mess on his head, and Wrench notices that the bruises from the nasal fracture sustained in a fall during the last job haven’t quite faded yet. They fan out like greenish-yellow wings from either side of the bridge of his nose and underline the dark half-crescents beneath his eyes. He knows this isn’t the best time for Numbers. Earlier, he spent a good fifteen minutes in his car parked in front of the apartment building, running through the various ways this scenario could play out, and because he was unable to imagine a single one where he would be received with a beaming smile and open arms, the lukewarm reception doesn’t surprise him all that much.

 _Please_. Wrench hates to play the pity card, but he motions toward his duffel bag on the floor.

Numbers stares at it, his eyebrows drawing together to meet in a scowl, and it looks as if he’s having trouble processing the implications of the bag which is filled so tightly that the seams are about to burst. He throws up his hands and his shoulders droop in a sigh as he turns around and walks into the dark space, leaving Wrench to follow and close the door behind him.

Once he does, he is startled by how dark it is inside. He looks to the sliding glass doors which he knows lead out onto a small balcony, but they are covered with heavy curtains, only a sliver of the late afternoon light prying its way in. Before his eyes have time to adjust, Numbers turns on a lamp, saving them the trouble.

Wrench nearly jumps out of his skin when the light falls on a prone figure on the cheap IKEA sleeper opposite the TV. Actually, all he can see are its bare feet and calves, as a trench coat covers the rest of it. It doesn’t so much as stir at the disturbance. Stunned, he can only watch as Numbers shuffles sleepily across the room and rips the coat off the sleeping figure, a woman in a tank top and underwear, then attempts to shake her awake with no response aside from a turn of the head. He gives Wrench a “what can you do?” look and drapes the coat back over her head and torso.

 _Who is she?_ The question is out before he can think to suppress it.

 _Doesn’t matter,_ is the sloppy reply, accompanied by a yawn.

Wrench examines him, his dark circles and mussed up hair. He doesn’t know Numbers as well as he would like – Numbers has gone through considerable effort to make sure of that – and this appearance which reveals an unaccustomed vulnerability makes Wrench feel incredibly like an unwanted intruder.

_Did I wake you?_

Numbers merely looks at him through lids half-covering his bloodshot eyes.

_It’s five in the afternoon._

Numbers graces the comment with another yawn. _What are you, my mother?_

Wrench shrugs. He’s not up to starting an argument, no matter how hypothetical in nature. And if he were to be honest with himself, he is just as tired as Numbers, and there’s nothing he wants more than to be asleep within the hour.

 _So._ His partner slumps onto the couch, shoving aside the woman’s legs, sprawling his arms across the cushions, and propping his bare feet up on the table, crossed at the ankles. It’s intimidating the way his sleep-deprived black eyes glower in the dim lighting. He doesn’t extend an invitation to sit. Then he addresses the elephant in the room. Or rather, the hit man in the room. _What are you doing here?_

Up until now, Wrench has been signing with his right hand, his left occupied with his duffel. He puts it down and raises both of his hands to sign properly, but stops and bites his lip, unsure how to best deliver the bad news, especially since Numbers seems predisposed to take even the best of news poorly. He decides that maybe there’s no sense in beating around the bush.

_Evicted._

As annoyed as he is, the exhausted Numbers can only manage a bleary-eyed frown. Realizing this is new vocabulary for Numbers, and seeing this as a second chance at softening the blow, Wrench tries a different approach.

_You’ve been to my apartment, right?_

_Motel room,_ Numbers corrects him without batting an eyelid.

Wrench rolls his eyes. No euphemism ever gets past this guy. _Does it matter?_ Numbers mouths a big yes, but he ignores him.

 _The landlor-,_ Wrench detects another dangerous look, _I mean, manager. You remember him?_

 _Tall, thin, balding,_ Numbers describes him with his practiced eye for detail. _Nice enough guy. What about him?_

 _Well, this “nice enough guy” –_ he draws out invisible quotation marks with his fingers, something he’s learned from Numbers – _kicked me out. Evicted._

This time, Numbers understands, and he perks up a bit. The ball’s in his court now, and he’s contemplating how he should deal with it. He takes his feet off the table and leans forward, then takes to gingerly rubbing the bridge of his nose with the side of his index finger. In Wrench’s mind, he’s seriously considering chucking the ball over the fence, leaving Wrench to run away after it. He keeps his own gaze trained on his feet, and it suddenly occurs to him that he hasn’t taken his shoes off. He detects a flurry of motion from his periphery and looks up.

 _Why?_ Numbers repeats.

Wrench blinks. _He thinks I killed his cat._

_Did you?_

There’s no accusation here; it’s just Numbers being the usual get-to-the-point Numbers. Yet Wrench can’t help but perceive a souring of the atmosphere, perhaps because of the mention of a dead cat. Or maybe it’s Wrench who’s becoming irritated, what with his waking time ticking into the thirty-third hour. He takes this into account and resolves to take in stride whatever Numbers has to dish out.

 _No,_ he signs simply.

Numbers appears satisfied with the answer. He stands up, motioning Wrench to follow with a jerk of the chin. He leads him into the adjacent kitchen and plucks out two beers from the fridge. As he leans into the refrigerator light, Wrench again notices how tired Numbers looks, and it makes him feel even worse about coming here. A bottle in each hand, Numbers waggles one in Wrench’s direction inquiringly. He declines. Numbers shrugs and takes both anyway, popping one open and taking a sip.

Wrench leans against the counter between the living room and kitchen, awaiting judgment, hands clasped together. His partner moves toward him.

 _When?_ Numbers asks.

Wrench considers. _What day is it today?_

_Tuesday._

_It’s been four days._ Wrench debates with himself briefly before adding, _I’ve been living in my car._

Numbers wrinkles his nose at some imaginary stench. _You’ve been living out of your car for half a week?_

Wrench shrugs again. Numbers mutters something under breath, probably swearing.

_Why didn’t you come earlier?_

Now _that_ was one question he hadn’t prepared for. He looks to the woman lying on the couch, then discovers that he has been harboring a deep-seated fear that Numbers wouldn’t have any room for him, metaphorically or otherwise, and an even more deeply rooted fear that he means nothing more to Numbers than a convenient intimidation device to be used during encounters with their marks. He could tell him all of this, but also knows that nothing good could possibly come out of it. He makes a show of mulling over an answer he doesn’t have, then shrugs. Again.

_I don’t know._

Wrench peels his eyes off his clasped hands to look at Numbers, who apparently hadn’t been looking for an answer to his rhetorical question. His beer is already halfway gone and he’s rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, wincing from the pain.

 _I don’t know about you, but I need to go back to sleep,_ he says after blinking away the stars.

Wrench nods in concurrence, but he eyes the occupied sofa as he wonders how Numbers plans to accommodate him. Numbers waves him back into focus.

_Come on._

He drains the last of his beer as he walks toward a corner of his apartment Wrench has never approached before. The door to his right is open, and he just about sways into the bedroom with Wrench close behind. The sunlight has had no luck finding its way in here either, the curtains over these windows also being amazingly light-proof. He points to the spacious king-size bed.

_You’re sleeping here._

More than anything, Wrench is glad to be sleeping on a proper bed after days of – well, _no_ bed. Then he notices that Numbers has brought the second beer with him, and he points to it with an inquisitive frown. Numbers places the bottle and opener on top of the nightstand, next to the one he's just finished.

 _For tomorrow morning,_ he offers in the way of explanation.

He yawns, and it’s getting to be contagious. _I’m going to go take a piss. Make yourself comfortable._

With that, he lumbers off into the bathroom. For a moment Wrench stays rooted to the spot and takes in the fact that he’s about to lie down – _lie down_ – in a bed, the anticipation almost good enough on its own. He moves the unused pillow, the one on the right, to the foot of the bed. He’s just taken off his jacket and shoes and changed into his last set of clean clothes when Numbers returns from the bathroom. The latter surveys both Wrench and the bed, then raises two upturned palms by a shrug of his shoulders, his face expressing annoyance and/or bewilderment only just discernible in the dark. Something along the lines of, _What the hell is this?_

 _T-O-P-A-N-D-T-A-I-L, right?_ Like how he used to sleep with his roommate, when they could only afford one mattress. When he used to live in an actual apartment.

 _You can’t sleep like that,_ Numbers says, drooping eyes defiant as he shakes his head. He’s so tired his spine can barely support his torso, his whole figure sort of wilting forward. Before Wrench can think to protest, he continues, _I know how you sleep, and I’m not having your foot smash what’s left of my nose._

Wrench would laugh if he weren't so tired, but instead surrenders to a yawn as he wordlessly replaces the pillow and lies down on the left side of the bed, facing the door. He can feel Numbers get in behind him and tug at the comforter until Wrench relinquishes some of it. The bed is so comfortable, Wrench keeps from closing eyes for a little while just to savor the moment. The door is still open a few inches, and light leaks in from the living room where Numbers forgot to switch off the floor lamp. Grateful for the soft light, Wrench sighs in relief and shuts his eyes for the first time in what seems like forever.


End file.
